


Cora

by argyleam



Category: Leverage
Genre: Age Difference, Breathplay, Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, Eliot Spencer's tragic self esteem, F/M, Mikel/Eliot mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyleam/pseuds/argyleam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cora McRory was twenty-three, with a geography degree and a bar to run. Eliot was a stubborn cuss who wasn't going to listen to Nate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cora

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Phnelt.

Cora was twenty-three with a minor in geography - “Cartography,” she specified, propping her elbows up on the bar while she talked about land title disputes in the Colorado herding country - and a major in business “-So I can run the bar,” she said, with a twist of her mouth. She had that long, long red hair and that redhead skin that was already showing time and sun damage, and she was little - Parker-sized little - probably from grief and long hours on her feet.

Eliot had promised Nate he wouldn’t do this, but he bought her a drink, which she took a sip of to be polite - probably too polite for a hot girl who owned a bar, she was gonna have to work on that - and got her to sit down with him. It was quiet - it was close to closing, and this wasn’t the kind of bar people stayed till closing at. This was a family pub, half-full of off-duty police and half-full of working people having one beer at the end of the day. There was snow on the ground outside. He was gonna remember that, later, the snow caking their shoes as they walked back to hers. 

Twenty-three was a little young for Eliot, these days. Eliot had been about twenty-three, back when it all started, and the thing about being twenty-three was that it was old enough to rack up a world of hurt - Cora, for example, lost her mom slow and painful and her dad quick and surprising in the same year, was running the family business before she could rent a car in most states, had just punched a loan shark. But that was different than the kind of trouble you started to count on later, the kind you brought on yourself.

Eliot liked a woman who looked at him like she knew what a mistake was and she was getting ready to make a real big one. He liked that, he liked the women who knew enough to catch a whiff of something real bad around him and for some reason that made them shift, thighs drawing against each other under the table, tilt their heads and smile that _I know your game_ smile. Tara had that in spades, Tara looked at him like she’d seen some real disgusting stuff behind his eyes and she thought that whatever was in there was _hilarious_. Mikel looked at him like whatever kind of monster he could be, she was a worse one and she was enjoying it, and yeah, he was real glad when Mikel skipped town because he would have kept that up with Mikel, he would have. Mikel _got_ to him in a way a woman generally couldn’t. Partially because she would have been fine to kill him, he was fairly sure, but she didn’t out of professional respect. 

Cora wasn’t the kind of woman who looked at Eliot like he was a mistake. Not yet. But first, Cora was off-limits and he was a stubborn cuss who didn’t listen, and second, she had to walk five blocks through a kind of medium neighborhood at three in the morning, and there’d been a lot of organized crime interested in her life real recently, so there was always a chance - just a chance - that it’d be convenient for something bad to happen to her somewhere in those five blocks. That’s what he told himself, at least, when he paid his tab with a twenty and shrugged his coat on and said “Come on, I’ll walk you home.” 

She was shy. That was the other thing about women who were too young for Eliot, now, that someone could have a face like Cora McRory’s and be _shy_. He gave her his hat in the cold, and she made a face at it when she put it on, like it smelled bad - probably did, hell, it probably smelled like gunpowder and adrenaline sweat. She paused at the stoop of her townhouse - probably her dad’s townhouse, too, and that would make Nate’s head explode if Nate ever found out, wouldn’t it - and said, shyly, “Do you want to come up?” 

Eliot stuffed his hands in his pockets and said, “I probably shouldn’t,” which was only half a ruse, because maybe he’d grow some kind of goddamn sense about this kind of thing one of these days. She tilted her head and shook her hair back - there were snowflakes on the ends, bright against the auburn - and stepped a little closer, like she was being real brave, like there was any question with a guy like Eliot. “You sure?” she said, reaching out and tucking his scarf into the collar of his coat. “It’s cold out here.”

He looked down the street, took a breath, and didn’t answer, and she tugged at his collar and said “Come on.” 

And yeah, it was a mistake, but she was an adult and it was her mistake to make, and she barely got him inside the door before she shoved him up against the wall and kissed him. 

Cora McRory was all lank, all long freckled arms and legs, and she got her knee up around his hips and shoved his coat off his shoulders like _he_ was doing _her_ some kind of favor by being here, and his hands fit into the curve of her waist like they were made to be there. It was tempting just to drop to his knees and pull her jeans off, but then, it wasn’t something you wanted to rush, a girl like that making a choice like this about you, so he just held onto her. His hands migrated to her ass and pulled her up close, hard against his erection, and there was a flash of something like triumph in her eyes. She gasped, grinding closer, and kissed his neck - too much tongue and he couldn’t imagine his stubble was any treat for the senses at three in the morning and then she bit a little _too_ hard and he went “Hey now,” and pushed her back a little.

“What?” she said, against his ear, shifting her hips against his, “You aren’t into that?” Her tone was half-mocking, like she thought she’d got the drop on him.

He got both hands hard on her ass and hauled her hard against him. “Darlin,’” he growled into her ear, “You h’ain’t got _half_ an idea what I’m into.” 

Her eyes were dark, looking at him, and there was a flicker of something - fear? triumph? some dark something, something that was gonna come back for her later, he was willing to bet, something Cora McRory didn’t know about herself yet. She lifted her chin - a tiny challenge - and said “Then show me.”

It was a dare but Eliot was not taking that goddamn dare, but what he could do was spin them hard - her breath oofed out as her back thumped against the wall - and go to his knees after all.

When he pressed his nose to the seam of her jeans, she pressed back against him, and her hands pressed into the hallway’s ugly wallpaper. “Nah, darlin,” he said, and took her hand in his and put it in his hair. She grinned and tightened her fingers, but he still looked up at her, quirking an eyebrow for permission, when he hooked his finger under the button of her jeans. 

“Yeah,” she gasped, lifting away from the wall, and he bit the inside of her thigh through the cloth - not hard, he didn’t know her and hell, redheads usually bruised easy - and tugged her pants off her hips.

Her panties had polka-dots on them, and little bows over the hips. He pressed his face against her - she was wet, so wet the fabric was soaking through, which, _goddamn_ \- and she gasped and ground back, so he nudged closer, pushed his mouth against the fabric, and she bit down on one hand and _squeaked_ , shaking. 

“Hey,” he said, looking up at her. Her eyes were huge in her face; she was flushed, already, and, yeah, okay. He knew that feeling.

“Keep going,” she said, a little firmer this time, and he reached up and pulled her hand away from her mouth and put it back on the back of his head. She wound her fingers in, this time, and he pulled her underwear down over her hips, slow - she even had freckles on her hipbones, a scattering, pale, and the low stubbly pubic hair of someone who used to shave but hadn’t had time to lately. He ran a thumb down the part of labia, looking up at her, and she got the idea and used her hand in his hair to pull him closer against her. 

He went gratefully. He loved this, he’d always loved this, the taste on his tongue, the smoothness, the way a woman’s cunt fluttered and clenched when she got close. Mikal used to tie his hands together and sit on his face, and god, _that_ had been good, like he was actually going to drown smothered by her, but this was good too, the way Cora’s hips were tense like she didn’t think she could move against him yet, the way her thighs felt under his hands. 

He rested the tip of a finger right against her, and she said “Yeah, yes,” so he slid two fingers inside her, slow, and god, she was _so_ wet, and hot and tight and she clenched around his hand, hips working, and her hands were finally hard enough in his hair to hurt. If he hadn’t already been hard in his pants, that would have done it. When he ran the flat of his tongue over her clit, she made that high, bitten-off noise again, so he did it again, slow at first and then faster as his fingers rocked against her, and yeah, she was _almost_ far-gone enough to be humping his face, almost, so he curled his fingers and yes, there. She pushed her hips against him, tight and quick and breathless, and it was so good, like that, caught between her hand in his hair and her body against him, it was so good that his balls ached.

She came quiet, he almost didn’t have warning, her hips stuttered and she clenched so _hard_ around his fingers, and her hands in his hair yanked, which, yeah, that was what he wanted, this, this whited-out feeling, like the world had narrowed to a point. 

She was panting, and after a moment she pulled him away - yeah, okay, she was probably too sensitive to keep going - and he rested his cheek against her thigh, breathing a little hard himself. 

“Okay?” he said, looking up, and he could leave now, he really could. He could get up and put his coat on. Her panties were still around her ankles, and there was a trail of clothing down the hall, her jeans over by the stairs, his scarf over a side table.

She was either flushed or she was blushing - from the way the tips of her ears had gone pink, he was guessing both - and he drew his fingers out of her, slowly, and then because she looked like she was about to get self-conscious he put his fingertips into his mouth, not looking away from her, and her eyes went dark again, her breath caught. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she said, breathless, and he didn’t think he’d ever heard her curse before. She kicked her panties away from underfoot and sank down, straddling him, and for a second it was basically a hug, her back long and warm under his hand, her face pressed into his shoulder. She was still wearing her shirt, and he was still completely dressed, pretty much - he liked to keep the scar collection covered up when he could, especially with someone like her, someone who didn’t need to be thinking about all that. Someone who might not like the answers she got if she asked him about it.

Then she rocked against him, and he swore he could feel how wet she was through his jeans. She touched her forehead against his - her eyes were closed, her arms draped loosely around his neck - and he wasn’t sure she would kiss him, but she did, shy at first and then licking into his mouth, fiercer. Tasting herself on him, and at that thought he groaned and his hands went to her hips, pulling her close against his jeans-covered cock. His hand ranged up her back - she was warm and smooth under his hand - and he felt for the clasp of her bra. It was barely a formality, one hook and eye. Easy to undo one-handed.

She had one hand on his cock, now, through his pants, pressed flat against him like she was trying to work out what, exactly, she was getting herself into, which, he could have told her from past experience that it was entirely average, not, like, terrifyingly huge or an awkward shape or anything. When he ran his hand up her back under the parted straps of her bra she leaned back and took hold of the edges of her t-shirt. She took it off like she was unwrapping a present, watching him, and god, but she was a beautiful woman, small-breasted, pale-shouldered, freckles tracing a vee down her chest. 

He bent and licked at a nipple, bit just a little, just to see how she felt about that, and when she gasped and put her hand back in his hair he bit harder, rolling his tongue against her. She gasped again and her hips pressed closer, back arching under his hand, and he let himself suck hard enough that tomorrow there might be a mark, red on pale skin. She ground against him when he bit her again, like she could fuck him through his jeans, and the zipper wasn’t a great feeling but her trying to get closer to him was. 

She shoved down at his shoulders, suddenly, hand scrabbling against the zipper of his jeans, and he said, “Hey -”. She gave him a narrow look, like she was expecting him to stop her, but he just said, “Condom in my coat pocket,” and nodded towards where the coat was puddled on the floor.

“It’s fine, I’m on the pill,” she said, unzipping, and his hands stilled on her waist and he said, “Darlin’, you don’t even _know_ me,” 

She rolled her eyes, and he tightened his hands, let his eyes go just a little scary for a second. Her breath caught. Her hips also shifted forward, just a little, not something he would have felt if he hadn’t half-expected it. He dug his fingers in - there was going to be a bruise on her hips, too - but she nodded, and reached for his coat, scrabbling in the pocket. He let her be the one to pull his cock out, figure out the wrapper - careful of her fingernails - roll it down over him, lip caught between her teeth like this required concentration, like it wasn’t something he’d done blind-drunk in a bathroom stall more than once. He reached down to check real quick once it was done, and yeah, it was fine, and then he flattened his palm against her pussy and drew a single finger down the wet center, dipping inward, and her hands went flat against his shoulder, her head dropped forward.

He let her push him flat on the floor of the hallway, her body long and pale in the light from the streetlamp outside, her legs against the jeans he’d shoved down just enough to give her access - there was a scar on his hip he wasn’t so eager to show her, but it was enough space for her to straddle him and press the tip of his cock against her cunt and look him dead in the eye as she sunk down on him.

God, she was tight - still clenched from the first orgasm, and wet, and hot, and for a moment he just let himself rest in that feeling. He let his head fall back, his hands loose and easy on her waist, and he felt that surprised flutter as she took him in, like a little orgasm. Her head was bent almost to his chest, and she was breathing hard, and he opened his eyes and combed his hand through her hair, and said “Okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, opening her eyes and shifting down around him, “Yeah,” and she knelt up and then sunk down, still clenching a little. He ran his tongue over his fingers and stroked against her clit, gentle, and her eyes flew open and she let out a low, unselfconscious groan and sped up, pushing her hips down against him. It felt so _good_ , like being swallowed, like the world was gone and it was just Cora McRory’s pussy. It felt so good that it took him a second to think about the fact that he’d now irrevocably fucked Nate’s practically-a-niece, no takebacks, and Nate could never, ever find out that this happened.

He wished that that didn’t dial up the intensity a little, but hell, most people were into some kind of forbidden fruit, she was probably getting off on fucking a sketchy random, it was fine. It was probably fine. She bit his shoulder, _hard_ , shuddering, and he groaned, hips lifting against her, and worked his fingers a little faster, and yes, there, there it was, she was louder this time, back curling under the intensity of it, cunt clutching hard around his cock as she cried out in his ear, once, twice, three times, and then she fell forward, back slippery with sweat under his hand. 

He was close, he was _so_ close, and she could tell, she glanced up at him and said, “How can I - are you -” and he said, “Here,” and picked up her hand and laid it along his throat. “Not too hard.” he said - she didn’t know what she was doing, and he didn’t want to scare her, but he let himself press her fingers in, up under the jaw, and _yes_ , that was what he wanted. Enough to imagine with, enough to imagine that she really had him down on the parquet floor and he was coming undone under her hand, greying out, enough to imagine that that was what she wanted, that she had a single violent impulse in her entire, long-boned, freckly body.

But then, her eyes were narrow, watching him, and she was clenching again as his hips lifted up against her, so maybe she did. He wrapped his hand tighter around her hip and pulled her down against him, fucking up into her, hard, hard, and she was crying out again, long low moans as her hand tightened on his throat, her back shaking against his hand, and his orgasm hit like a punch to the head, his whole body curling up under the brunt of it. 

\---

It was getting light outside. They were still laying on the floor of the foyer, under the coat he’d dragged over their shoulders; she was wrapped around him, her head on his chest, and he should go but it was easy to stay there, running his fingers through her hair. He’d almost been drowsing when the rattle of the snowplow outside shook him fully awake.

She shifted against him; he wasn’t sure if she’d fallen asleep, and then she said, “You have to go, right?” She sounded more factual than hopeful. 

He kissed her forehead, which he probably shouldn’t have done, he probably should have gone gruff, but she sighed and sat up, reached for her t-shirt. It was cold, in the hallway, there was a draft from the door, and she rubbed her arms. “I do,” he said, finally. Guiltily. He wondered if he should say something real honest, say _we can’t do this again_. 

She looked up at him, and he didn’t say anything. “I knew that,” she said, gently, like she was letting him off the hook. She bit her lip and looked away. “I needed - something.” she said, “Something good to happen. It’s been a rough month.” 

“Not used to being something good,” he said, low, and she grinned at him. 

“I’m going to give you my number,” she said, finally, “but I don’t expect you to call it.”

“Anyone in his right mind would,” he said, which was probably more than he needed to say to her, but there it was. “Not sure I can.”

“I know,” she said again, simple, and he let her put the number in under _Cora M_. 

\---

He was in Kiev for six weeks after that, running a job for Nate, and then he kind of avoided the pub for a little bit, and by the time he got brave enough to show his face back in there there was a tall guy, young, floppy brown hair, hanging out at the bar. Cora introduced him to Eliot as her boyfriend. A graduate student at Boston University, Nate said. A geologist. A geologist and a cartographer, that worked out about right. Eliot shook his hand and debated telling Cora that if the guy ever gave her any trouble, she should call Eliot and Eliot would set him straight.

Then Eliot decided that no, Cora didn’t need him to. She was a woman who could handle herself. And she’d call him if she needed help. He punched the guy on the shoulder, not even very hard, tipped his glass at Cora and grinned, and then went to see what Nate had on the schedule for the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm new to this fandom and don't know anybody yet, so if you want to say hey in comments, I'd love more people to talk about these characters with! I'm argyleam on tumblr.


End file.
